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“What’s that over there?”

Fiona obligingly looked away while Trevor nudged his ball out of the rough with his foot. This wasn’t the first time he’d cheated. On the third hole his ball had mysteriously leapt out of the pond to arrive in a perfect position on the green, covered in duckweed.

“How on earth did it get there?” she’d asked. He winked. “Must be an act of God.”

But now she had had enough, and despite leading by several points she no longer cared who won. She wished she’d never agreed to a game of pitch and putt with Trevor. How could she have known she’d be a natural? The better she played, the more Trevor sulked.

She feared he would never admit defeat.

The sun had now faded over the horizon and they had seen no one for hours. The pitch and putt golf course was long and confusing. They had to climb over a fence to get to the final green.

“Are you sure this is right?” Fiona frowned. “There’s an awful lot of garden gnomes.”

“Trust me,” Trevor insisted. “I know my way around a golf course. What’s this?”

A scrappy dog ran towards them, wagging its whole body as if it had never been more pleased to see anyone.

“Pumpkin!” a woman called from the shadows. “Pumpkin, where are you?”

“He’s over here,” Trevor replied in a clipped tone, “by the ninth hole.”

The woman, wrapped in a dressing gown, trudged towards them from beyond the hedge. “You know, you really shouldn’t allow dogs on here,” Trevor said curtly.

“He’s got to do his tiddles,” the woman dismissed him blithely.

Trevor raised his eyebrows. “If you could just keep him away from this hole,” he grunted finally, “I’d appreciate it.”

“I don’t think I can,” she replied. “That’s his favourite hole, he’s buried all sorts of things down there.”

“That’s very inconsiderate,” Trevor huffed. “I’ve a good mind to report you to the management.”

“Have you now?” The woman laughed. “What management is that?”

“The golf course, of course.”

“But the golf course is over the fence, and you’re in my back garden.”

“But…” Trevor protested helplessly, “I haven’t won yet.”

“Finish your game and be off then.” The woman sighed patiently.

“I’ll tell you what, Trev,” Fiona offered, “if I get a hole in one, I win – if not, the game is yours.” She knew he could not resist the deal.

She squared up to the ball, glowing in the twilight like a tiny moon on the dewy grass, raised her putter and hit it squarely. The ball rolled neatly past the hole, just as she’d intended.

“Shame,” Trevor declared smugly.

As the ball rolled on, Pumpkin nipped forward and grabbed it in his jaws, then trotted back and deposited the ball in the hole.

“Looks like you’ve got a winner,” said the woman, clapping.

“But that’s cheating,” Trevor stammered. “Let’s call it an act of dog,” Fiona laughed. “Now let’s get out of this nice lady’s garden.”

By Jackie Brewster